


Sometimes A Knife Is Just A Knife (But Probably Not This Time)

by psychomachia



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: I'm just saying, your therapist is going to have a field day with this one.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108
Collections: 300bpm Flash Exchange November 2019





	Sometimes A Knife Is Just A Knife (But Probably Not This Time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).



> Inspired by "Father Figure" by George Michael.

“You know they're not wrong,” Martin says. “Sexual repression manifests itself in dreams and being penetrated is a very common fantasy. It may be a bit pedestrian for us, but I don't judge you for wanting to explore your desires in whatever form they take.”

Of course he has an opinion about it because that's Malcolm's life -- one big fucked up mess for people to analyze and shake their heads at. Malcolm's not even sure why he came back, or for that matter, how his father managed to get out of solitary, but it doesn't surprise him. Nothing does these days. 

“Since your desires tend to lead to bodies turning up,” Malcolm says, “I don't really think I need your advice.”

His father smiles. “My boy, you've got it all wrong. I'm just trying to show you that keeping all of this bottled up – this frustration, this tension-- it's going to make you explode.” His father has the same patient, gentle look on his face, the one that says I'll take care of this and don't worry about that girl, everything's okay, go to sleep now.

“Fuck you,” Malcolm's shaking. “I'll have you know that I'm handling them just fine. I even--” He stops. “I'm not going to tell you about my personal life.”

“It's all right, son,” he says. “I know about Eve. She's a lovely girl, isn't she?”

“What do you—” Malcolm stops, really looks at his father. “Is she connected to you?”

“And pulling a knife on her?” Martin shakes his head. “This is why I worry so much about you. You think just anyone could understand that? Could accept you?”

Malcolm feels himself shrinking in, the world becoming smaller. The cell's already tiny to begin with, but it's suffocating him. He's in the box. He's--

His father puts his hand on his head. “They lie to you. All of them. They say they love you, but they don't know you. I know you.”

No.

Malcolm doesn't think he's saying it out loud.

"You might think all I want you to do is kill people," his father is caressing his hair, he's a kid again, those hands soothing him after nightmares that they caused, "but you and I both know that it's more than that. What I want you to do is love me the way I love you. Or rather," his father's smile widens, "accept that you love me the same way."

"You want me to accept you?" His chest is tight, he's woozy like he's been drugged, because that's what being with Martin is like: reality coming in and out of focus, a voice murmuring in your ear to just let it take you, and your eyes closing in on darkness, wondering if you'll wake up from it this time. 

“I would accept anything from you, my boy,” Martin whispers. “If you wanted to kill me, I'd let you push the knife straight into my heart. Even then, we'd still be together. You'd never forget me, would you?"

“I would never kill you,” he chokes out, and he can't finish that, because his father has moved his hand to his chest, is pushing him back on the bed.

The bed? No, this isn't...

“This isn't real.” Malcolm's head hits the pillow. “You're not here.”

“Do you really know that?” Martin asks. “Let's face it – you're not the greatest judge of reality these days.” He runs his hands along Malcolm's crisp shirt, unbuttons it carefully, spreads it open to reveal Malcolm's chest. His hand goes to Malcolm's heart, rests above it and taps gently in time with his heartbeat. His father's always known his rhythm. 

“And you are?” He hears the beating in his ears, a metronome that lulls him, makes him pliant to his father pulling off the rest of his clothes, leaving him open and exposed. The look in his father's eyes as they roam down his body is partly clinical, a doctor examining a particularly interesting patient, but much more than that, it's admiring. The Surgeon saw everything that he made and he saw that it was good. 

It makes him flush, makes his cock rise. His father loves him, loves everything about him and there will always be a part of him that hungers for that. 

Martin's hand picks up Malcolm's own, lying limp on the mattress. He puts it to his lips, kisses it gently. “I know what's best for you,” he says. “I know that if you keep fighting it, you're going to keep hurting.” 

“You hurt me.” He's saying it, but from a distance, his voice getting farther and farther away. His hand floats away from him, anchored only by the heat of his father's tongue, tethering it to his body. “You made me--”

“I made you perfect.” Martin's leaning over him now, his face grinning. There's blood on his teeth. It could be Malcolm's. It could be his father's. 

But Malcolm repeats himself. 

“You understand that, right? That you're my perfect, precious boy. It's the world that took that away from us. But we can get it back.”

Blood's dripping on his face now. Malcolm's mouth opens, catches the drops on his tongue and tastes his family. “I don't want this,” he says. “I--”

“You need this, don't you?” Martin bends even further, kisses him deeply. He lets his father take his breath, give him his own in exchange because it's all the same in the end – their blood runs together like an ocean and drowns the people pulled into its wake. 

“Yes,” he says, when his father stops, though they both know he didn't have to. He just wants an answer before he continues. And Malcolm can't stop himself from saying, “I do.”

“I know we'll be happy.” Martin's hands dip lower, take Malcolm's cock and gently rub it. They're deft, efficient, fingers as adept with bringing a man to completion as they are at cutting him open for an operation or slitting his throat. “Everyone will just have to accept it.”

“And if they don't?” Malcolm lets himself arch back, lets his father manipulate him, stroke him to pleasure, take control of everything. It's so much easier, so much nicer if he just lets his father do what he want. It's so hard to keep resisting what runs in your veins. 

Right? This is something that he has to do? He thinks—but it's hard to think—it's hard to remember and--

His father flicks one careful finger and Malcolm's coming, a rush of heat and ecstasy that makes him rise, then slam against the bed. His father releases him, only to sit down on the bed and pull Malcolm into his lap. Malcolm leans back, lets his head rest on his father's shoulder as Martin's arms come around him, hold him tightly, trap him in his embrace. 

“Well,” Martin says, “You know the answer to that.” His hands grip Malcolm's own for a second, close them shut, then open them up again like a delightful magic trick he wants to show his boy. 

There's a knife in Malcolm's right hand. It's nice and sharp. 

Martin nods.

"I'll be waiting."

Malcolm wakes up, his sheets sticky beneath him. There are tears on his face and he's smiling, but he hasn't stabbed anyone, so that's a plus.

He falls back, lets out a sigh.

Gabrielle's not getting near this one.


End file.
